


Road Trip (one-shot)

by Rose1832



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14449503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose1832/pseuds/Rose1832
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire end up stranded on the highway when their car breaks down, forcing them to do the unthinkable: Talk. Grantaire learns something about Enjolras he never expected to discover.





	Road Trip (one-shot)

“I think we’ve lost a lug nut.”

 

“ _ You’re  _ a lug nut.”

 

“It would certainly explain why the wheel’s missing.”

 

“Well damn, the police won’t take our case for another forty-seven hours-”

 

“ _ Grantaire.” _

 

Grantaire has taken special care to master a particular brand of,  _ how do you say,  _ shit-eating grin for occasions like these. The rare occasion when the two are left alone, and he can savor every detail in the way his  _ dear, fellow associate  _ pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut, as though he can block out the sarcasm by pretending he didn’t see it. Grantaire figured he could take things further by making a jab at how the president of the only on-campus  _ save the world  _ group was purposefully choosing to not see a problem, and really, that was just  _ so  _ hypocritical, but he held his tongue. They still had at least an hour of driving ahead of them, stuck together in the same, cramped van, and they were blown out on the side of a highway because Grantaire is not a man of money and cars do not come cheap. He figured he would take pity. For now.  _ A sign of true maturity,  _ he reasoned, leaning against the rust-tinted steel of what could have been the crack-addict uncle of the Mystery Machine.

 

“Ugh-  _ fuck, _ ” and Grantaire starts at this. He’s almost entirely certain Enjolras has never said anything worse than  _ damn  _ during one of his esteemed  _ We-The-People,  _ revolutionary-coup club meetings, and only when he was feeling particularly zesty.  _ Zesty,  _ Grantaire thinks, is an oddly fitting way to describe that man. “Grantaire,” and the words come out almost defeated, but Grantaire already knew he wasn’t more than a last resort at  _ best _ , “who’s your carrier? I can’t get service- must be the  _ mountains…” _ At this his words trail off, almost as though they had been spoken without intention. Grantaire didn’t even bother trying to answer. Enjolras’ back was to him now, striding dangerously close to the shoulder of the road, phone raised above their heads like a torch, a revolutionary fist, a desperate attempt at finding signal that seemed to be a wordless demand to the world. Grantaire could see it now; the Statue of Liberty politely bowing out of the way when she saw the man standing there, looking so determined and powerful against an empty, dusty highway, clearly a place he’d found himself by accident- it was obvious, just at a glance, that such a masterpiece of nature didn’t belong somewhere so...unimportant. Enjolras was at once the torch and torchbearer. He was the fire, but also the shaman; it would bend to his will simply out of a desire to do so. Grantaire had wondered how such a being could exist on this gross, dying planet for more than five minutes without withering, and had come to two conclusions:

 

  1. Years of running a social justice group, oddly named _Les Amis de l’ABC_ (a title which nobody knew the true meaning of, though there had been many a side discussion about it) had somehow formed a shield around the man’s brain, perpetuating his ability to remain vigilant and hopeful about _literally every goddamn thing._ Enough to stand there against the shoulder of a dusty road, brow knit in determination as though he could level the mountains by giving them a really long speech on the importance of universal communication. After hundreds of debates with bigots and conservatives and Graintaires ( _oh my_ ), one would think it would begin to wear on a person. Instead, Enjolras had grown steadily _more_ enthused about making the world a better place, _more_ convinced that this was all possible, bringing the cynic to Conclusion 2:



 

  1. Enjolras is literally a god. The literal, actual manifestation of Apollo. It would certainly explain some things, Grantaire thinks. Even from behind, he can picture the flashing eyes holding all the breath of a room, can see the sharp curve of Cupid’s bow in his lips, shaping each syllable in _proletariat_ or _declaration_ or even, hell, _orange juice_ in such a way that made you believe anything was possible. Not to mention that ridiculous hair. Golden ringlets, sweeping gently over his ridiculous forehead in a way that always looked _ridiculously, unfairly good,_ and Grantaire _might_ have spent a few more hours than what could be considered normal sketching those waves and rings on napkins and canvas and anything, really, promising himself none of it would ever see the light of day. Stupid artistic appreciation. Stupid pretty people.



 

“ _ Grantaire, _ ” comes that voice again, demanding in a way that would be harsh if it weren’t also so  _ commanding,  _ and the artist is dragged back into the reality of the situation. Here, there’s no canvas, no revolutionary speech.

 

Here is a dusty interstate highway that he’s  _ pretty sure  _ they’re the only ones on for miles. He’s seen maybe one car drive by, and there’s no way _ they _ weren’t lost either- you could have plucked that determined little Subaru out of a commercial, upside-down canoe and all. The sun is still high; they left early enough that morning ( _ approximately ass-o’clock,  _ Grantaire thinks) that getting to this point had only taken a couple hours. Adding in a break for fuel and snacks, it was probably somewhere close to noon. Somehow, the emptiness of the road only made that fact more depressing. The sky was clear blue. In any other scenario it would have made for a lovely image. Here, it almost seemed taunting.  _ Maybe it’ll be like one of those survival movies,  _ his brain muses unhelpfully.  _ Stuck out here for hours. Sun beating down on our backs. Huddling for warmth at night- _

 

“Right, right. Phone. Got it.” He fumbles around in one of his pockets, remembering putting it there at some point before falling asleep on the road. Letting out a small cry of success, he pulls the small slider from his jeans, moving to hand it off to the waiting (calloused, warm) palm that he doesn’t quite remember being placed in front of him in the first place. It’s then that the realization sinks in, and he feels himself shrink under the icy, expectant stare. “Ah...right. That’s an issue.”

 

A perfect golden eyebrow arches in front of him, as if anticipating some kind of joke. Or maybe refusal altogether. Instead, Grantaire awkwardly clicks the home button, suddenly feeling about as big as the lug nut they’d somehow lost. Under any other circumstance he might crack a lame one-liner, but there are daggers in Enjolras’ eyes, and really, he should have remembered how easily that man could make you (or maybe just him) feel inadequate. Something close to that feeling, the one when your mom sighs and tells  you she’s  _ just disappointed,  _ and you really kind of hate yourself even if she’s  _ not mad _ because you realize how much of a failure you are as her kid. Only, this time,  _ mom  _ is also  _ tremendously pissed.  _ And disappointed. “It’s, ah...out of charge.”

 

For a moment, he wonders if he’s about to know what it’s like to be beaten to death with your own lifeless phone. Grantaire can see the police report now. **Area Man Too Stupid To Charge Phone Before Long-Ass Road Trip; Endangers Life of Really Hot Classmate.** By the expression on Enjolras’ face, he didn’t look far from trying. His strong jaw was set with fury, eyes absolutely _livid_ -

 

And then it stopped. All at once, like a balloon being popped with a single needle. Or, a balloon being poked with a needle, but the film crew decided  _ nah, leave out the deflating bit,  _ and one poke later it was just  _ dead.  _ No loud noises. Just the balloon returning to its initial, floppy state. A state he’d never imagined this balloon could be in, ever. “Damn,” those perfect lips were kneading against each other in thought, pursed in what Grantaire might have mistaken for pontification had he not caught the (infuriatingly tall) man’s eyes before he turned away. They weren’t full of untamed rage, that passion that drove his  _ causes-du-jours _ to purpose. It was something more subdued, more natural. Something...worried. Worried and desperate.

 

_ Anxious,  _ he realized.

 

“Whoa, hey,” acting more on startled reflex than anything else, Grantaire suddenly felt as though he were working with a terrified deer in the woods than a revolutionary polisci major on a road trip gone horribly wrong. “The, uh-” he swallowed. Those eyes were back on him, demanding as much as they were searching. It was almost disturbing, seeing the half-hearted smudge of the usual  _ Grantaire-don’t-you-dare-smartass-me _ look, clouded by translucent layers of frustration, worry, and,  _ lord,  _ defeat. It was unsettling, knowing that this particular chemical reaction could never occur in nature, never in Enjolras. It was man-made, and Grantaire suddenly felt like he’d swallowed a large rock, because  _ only he could manage to screw up this bad. _ Grantaire  _ really  _ hoped he could say the  _ right damn thing for once.  _ “The others,” he managed. “They were behind us, weren’t they? By, like, not much? Shouldn’t they be- I mean, they only left an hour later-” he gulped down a nervous lump in his throat. Those goddamn  _ eyes,  _ could they just  _ not  _ do that  _ thing _ -

 

“I...yeah.” And...what? “Yeah, that’s...how long?” Grantaire is pretty sure he’s imagining things, because never in the history of anything has the word  _ yeah  _ ever slipped out of Enjolras’s mouth in his direction,  _ ever.  _ “What do we do for...fifty-five minutes?” He tries not to find the complete cluelessness endearing somehow.  _ Christ, ‘Terre, a man is dealing with anxiety. This is NOT the time.  _

 

“We could, er- wait in the van?” It’s about as original idea as the Star Wars prequels, so he adds, “I think I brought cards,” which doesn’t make it any less lame as responses go, but it seems to help a little, because Enjolras is slowly nodding.

 

“I...yeah.” Deja-vu. “Cards. D’you know War?” Which is an ironic choice from the man who advocates military budget cuts, but seeing as that man is now worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and drumming his fingers against his elbow at a tempo most pianists would envy, they both knew they were fishing for distractions at this point. So Grantaire, applauding himself for not being the tremendous asshole he very well could have been in that moment, decided to play along.

 

“ _ Do I know War.  _ I could have  _ invented  _ War. Prepare yourself, Enjolras,” he chides, babbling in a way he hopes looks intentional, “You’re about to regret your stances on the current economic policies of this country.”

 

Well, at least he’d decided to spring for AC.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Creative Writing class I took last fall. Kind of old, but I thought I'd share! :)  
> Send me your thoughts!  
> (tumblr: anonymous-lizard)


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